The little girl won’t eat her sandwich; <br />she lifts the bun and looks in, but the grey beef <br /> coated with relish is always there. <br /> Her mother says, “Do it for mother.” <br />Milk and relish and a hard bun that comes off <br /> like a hat—a kid’s life is a cinch. <br /> <br /> And a mother’s life? “What can you do <br />with a man like that?” she asks the sleeping cook <br /> and then the old Negro who won’t sit. <br /> “He’s been out all night trying to get it. <br />I hope he gets it. What did he ever do <br /> but get it?” The Negro doesn’t look, <br /> <br /> though he looks like he’s been out all night <br />trying. Everyone’s been out all night trying. <br /> Why else would we be drinking beer <br /> at attention? If she were younger, <br />or if I were Prince Valiant, I would say that fate <br /> brought me here to quiet the crying, <br /> <br /> to sweeten the sandwich of the child, <br />to waken the cook, to stop the Negro from <br /> bearing witness to the world. The dawn <br /> still hasn’t come, and now we hear <br />the 8 o’clock whistles blasting from heaven, <br /> and with no morning the day is sold.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blasting-from-heaven/
